


where the hours grow longer

by homsantoft (tofsla)



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Fisting, M/M, Multiple Orgasms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 07:19:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13899096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla/pseuds/homsantoft
Summary: Samot and Samothes enjoy a day of leisure, and Samothes submits himself, for a little while, to Samot's will.





	where the hours grow longer

**Author's Note:**

> Linda, Hauke & James are filthy enablers. Thank u.

On a day of leisure the sun’s light finds Samot lying on his stomach, chin propped up on one hand as the other slowly turns the pages of a book. This light turns Samot to gold, hair and skin both—spills warmth across his naked body—picks out the gold thread woven through hangings—lends a ruby glow to the last of the wine in Samot’s glass so that it seems luminous in its own right. 

Consider Samot’s expression—a little contemplative—distracted as if by some minor puzzle in the words he’s just read. 

Consider this allowing for the presence of the King-God Samothes, Ingenuity Alive, between Samot’s slightly spread legs—allowing for the slide of his hand across Samot’s hip—for the sigh of his breath against Samot’s ass as he allows himself such a curiously human thing as a pause to catch his breath. Where Samot is naked he wears a loose robe, the fastening loose so that it pools around him.

“Not a terribly engaging effort,” Samot says, in tones of idle observation, gesturing towards the book. “It’s not bad, my love, but you’ve had more inventive ideas.”

“What would you suggest?” Samothes murmurs. Kisses the crease at the top of Samot’s thigh.

Paper whispers under Samot’s fingers—gently caressed—

“Hmmmm,” he says. Shifts his hips in silent instruction. “I’d consider the problem less literally. I know you can’t help your head-on approach, but it isn’t very exciting. Changing the prevailing winds is one way to speed up sea transport, obviously, but—“

Samothes shifts behind him, and Samot frowns—at the loss of Samothes’ mouth against him, perhaps—or only at the notes he’s considering. Reaches idly for the wine and drains the last of it. 

“Your alternative?” he prompts. His hands are insistent on Samot’s hips, lifting them—the back of his hand drags against Samot’s cock as he rearranges the pillows scattered across the space.

“Oh, no,” Samot says. “I’m not here to do your work _for_ you.”

His hair spills over his shoulder as he turns his head to look sidelong at Samothes. It hangs almost to the floor in loose waves. His face, his face—a sort of sharp delight is written across it—

“No? That isn’t why you rearranged my entire workroom?”

“That was for my own peace of mind,” Samot says.

Samothes, kneeling, spreads his hand low on Samot’s smooth back—slides it higher, thumb on the ridge of his spine—draws it down, down—lower still—his thumb on Samot’s skin becomes a slick warm thing—when he sinks his thumb slowly into Samot it’s an easy slide. 

No resistance.

“I love you,” he says—quiet and thoughtful, looking down at Samot’s carelessly relaxed body—

“You mean you’re so hard just thinking about fucking me that it hurts? You're going to have to wait.”

Samothes laughs. “I mean I love you.”

“That’s nice,” Samot says. A smile plays across his face—Samothes feels it sliding through all of Samot’s being—aches, yes, in several ways at once.

Samot closes Samothes’ notebook with a quick deliberate snap and lays it aside—a careless toss—his hand hovers over a couple of other volumes, indecisive in the way of one with all the time in the world.

Samothes bends to kiss Samot's skin again—forehead pressed for a moment to the space between Samot’s shoulderblades, feeling Samot’s muscles shift as he considers.

Chooses, still with that air of relaxed unconcern, a volume of his own—notes on the holidays of the northern regions.

Samothes shifts his hand—fingers pushing deep into Samot—and with Samot this lax, how easy it would be to keep opening him up with slow slick strokes—press the widest part of his hand carefully in—

“If you would,” Samot says airily. Pushes back against Samothes’ hand. Pushes, in an idle way, until he's pushing against four fingers—

One wouldn’t know from his tone or from the ease with which he shifts and settles that his cock was quite so hard as it in fact is. One wouldn't know how his pulse trembles against Samothes' hand. He seems moments from coming, if one considers only that—the wetness at the head of his cock—

He does, when Samothes presses his hand entirely into him—comes, with a peculiar ease—with a quick spasm of the body—no more than a moment where his fingers pause on the page—where his eyes fall closed—a breathy exhale that becomes a pleased sigh. 

Come streaks his stomach—the fabric beneath him—

He arches his body lazily, like stretching out a kink in the back—

Samothes curls his hand inside Samot with such deliberate care, feeling the ongoing jolts of pleasure Samot is experiencing echo through that intimately deep place, far below the surface. Out of sight entirely.

“I think I may travel soon,” Samot says, turning another page. 

”I see.” 

Samothes shifts his hand slowly, every detail of Samot’s body catalogued for study. Samot pushes back into it again, making this movement a little harder than intended, this one a little faster. Samothes could do this with improbable roughness and Samot would treasure every moment of it—would do his best to escalate—he has always had a certain violence in him—

But there is a quietness to the day, a quietness in Samot—the pace he sets is a command, and Samothes obeys—sinks deeply into it, into a place where there is only Samot.

“I suppose you could follow me,” Samot says. Another slow arch of his body. Note that his cock is still hard—his face still unconcerned—note the fact that Samothes himself is the more flushed of the two.

How clearly Samothes shows his adoration—how easily—in every filthy reverent touch—

All the same.

“No, of course not,” Samot says, when Samothes gives no spoken response. He smiles to himself, a wicked little thing—eyes trained on his book, fingers tapping idly, as though Samothes were doing nothing more than kissing his shoulder in passing. “My lord is _ever_ so busy.”

Samothes makes a noise in his throat—might it be that his desire is so strong that he can't help it?

"Don't touch yourself," Samot says, still not looking. "Hm—"

His body jolts again—a small frown—his lips part, for a moment. How would one know that pleasure has been building in him? He holds it tightly leashed—but there's a slight gasp to his exhale as he comes for the second time.

Samothes laughs, and certainly there's a light tremor to it, his eyes fixed on the place where Samot's hole stretches around his wrist. Draws his hand very slowly from Samot’s body—leans over him—close to him, mouth to his ear—hand on his cock, barely moving, only reinforcing the arousal that even now persists in Samot—only promising that he's obeying the command, all his focus for his husband.

“I _might_ come with you,” he says. 

Samot’s breath shudders from him, more loudly than before. 

“Might you.”

“I might have important business to attend to where you’re going. I think I do.”

A smile in the words, softer than any of Samot’s.

“And where is it you think I’m going?”

Samot turns, rolling to one side—draws Samothes with him—settles on his back and guides Samothes to kneel above him once again. Samothes draws his fingertips through the come that's smeared across Samot's stomach—smiles at Samot as he does it. Wraps his hand loosely around Samot's cock, as Samot wills it. Samot only shifts his weight, draws a deep breath.

“It doesn’t matter where you're going,” Samothes says, and Samot’s laugh is clear and delighted.

“You’re going to manage me, then.”

“I’m going to take you to bed every night. Take you apart.”

“Find out how I work?”

“It’s not a small project,” Samothes admits. “I may need some time.”

Samot raises an eyebrow. Samothes watches him with that intense focus of his—considering—always considering. "And if I don't want to be understood—only worshiped? Could I use you?"

Samothes bows his head.

“Give me your cock,” Samot says, his smile a satisfied predatory thing—lets his hand drift down between his legs to touch his hole—sinks his fingers into himself with a soft noise of pleasure, just for a moment. It is a sort of acquiescence—a small one—by no means an end to the game.

“Not very inventive,” Samothes says, and if he’s chiding it’s with more than a little humour. “Will that be enough to hold your attention, or should I call for some more entertainment?”

He brushes a hand across Samot’s cheek.

Samot turns to kiss his palm, but his eyes are wicked as they look up at him.

“We’ll have to see,” he says. His expression plays again at boredom. “Your hand was—adequate, I suppose.”

“I could be that deep inside you every day,” Samothes says. “Perhaps I should be.”

Oh, yes, here it is:

Samot flushes. Certainly, he contrives indifference well—but there it is, a dash of colour, sharp on his pale sun-drenched skin.

“Idiot,” he says. Tilts his head back so that he’s looking up at the high ceiling, not at his husband. “So much for ingenuity.”

Samothes’ mouth on his throat feels to Samot as though it ought to burn.

Samothes lifts Samot’s leg to find a better angle, a way to fit their bodies together— 

Presses into him.

“Let me see you,” Samothes says. “Let me see what I do to you—“

The response is a sharp laugh. 

“Earn it,” Samot says.

“If that’s what you want,” Samothes says, and turns his attention to the task.

The room dims slowly. 

It’s very nearly dark before Samot’s voice really breaks on the jagged edge of pleasure, shatters—he’s come with Samothes fucking him—come with a toy of his own invention buried in him, one he has more commonly left for Samothes’ use in his absence. Played at reading—at boredom—although he’s filthy with his own come—although his body is beginning to tremble—

Samothes fucks him again this day's last time—holds him close, face to face, now that Samot has relented enough to permit it—kisses him—kisses him—

The breaking point for Samot is between one kiss and the next.

“Samot,” Samothes is murmuring, a half inch from Samot’s lips—his hands are buried in Samot’s hair—he’s trembling far more than Samot, but he wears it well, and Samot is caught by some stray thought, some piece of love and heat and need, and his whole body sparks at it—and perhaps the noise he makes would be a sob, if he didn’t rush to muffle his own voice against Samothes’ mouth. 

He is held together, of course. Held together until he can stop shaking, until his mind clears and settles and grows as still as a windless pool.

“Love,” he says—a shivering sigh. “Oh, love. You’re very good to me.”

The sun slips away entirely behind the trees. Lanterns begin to glow in the room, unbidden—a small artifice.

Samothes is as hot as day against him—holds Samot tightly to him—

How could either of them consider letting go?


End file.
